Last updated: July 15th, 2021 12:17 am
From: Barrister Allison Diuof.
Subject: Barrister Allison Diuof.
Good day mr Steve, i hope you are having a nice day.
Am Barrister Allison Diouf, a citzen of Senegal and working under the Senegalese bar association. I was summoned two days ago by the western union headquarters here, to sign for the cancellation of the a transaction the have with you which you are unable to take up and tried to joke with them by your fake payment for the due process.
I was unable to sign such cancellation process, considering the amount in question, and despite how i was pressurized to sign for it, i told them to give me your email address let me hear from you and to confirm from you because from their explanation, i come to realize that i have met this young lady, mrs Rose, the day she came to the UN office to clear her refugee statue with her husband. Is a surprise to me, i mean, rejecting such amount of money because of $600 they charged to get a new card as you can see the old one has expired, they showed me which i attached to you. If is cancelled, then the money belongs to the government as abandoned property.
If you wouldn’t mind, am here to stand by you and with my power as a lawyer, to make sure it takes the proper process and getting to you successfully, if you do not have the said amount you are required, then am ready to give you a little support financially, let me pay half of the money for you which is $300, then you will pay $300, but as soon as you receive the card you are going to give me the money back and also you will also show appreciation with any amount that comes from your heart. At this point trust is highly needed, i want to do this because i will benefit from it, and the government shouldn’t be the one to take such a heart touching offer. I wait to hear from you so i can in touch with the bank as i told them i will get back to them.
Barrister Allison Diuof.
To: Barrister Allison Diuof.
Subject: PLOT TWIST!
Mr. Steve is not here anymore. This is Ernesto.
I read your letters with Mr. Steve. He was a very dishonest and cruel man. He routinely tormented his slaves and yelled at us all the time. Yesterday, my brother was badly injured when he tripped while we were carrying Mr. Steve down the stairs in his ridiculous litter. I pleaded with Mr. Steve to help my brother but all he cared about was his stupid pen. He said we were selfish idiots who only wanted to hurt him (he used more difficult language but my English is not as good as his so I can’t repeat it exactly). He said we were going to pay for this and I overheard him talking to one of the palace guards later about how he was going to send us to the mines.
That’s when I had enough.
I did not go to sleep today and waited until midnight when I knew Mr. Steve would be asleep and snuck into his bedroom. He and two naked girls (whom I’ve seen around the palace before) were sound asleep in his bed. As I approached the bed, I noticed his dumb pen on the nightstand.
I grabbed the damn thing and stabbed Mr. Steve in his fat fucking neck.
Alejandro and I are now in charge. My brother is still recovering. We have a lot of work to do when he recovers. At first I thought we should just burn Mr. Steve’s palace down to the ground but the other slaves convinced me we should do something more productive with it. We decided we would all do our part and build a better life on his estate. Alejandro and I were Mr. Steve’s personal servants for a long time and the old bastard insisted we learn English because he said he wanted us to understand him when he insulted us. Ironically, this turned out to be very beneficial because we can now take over his businesses much easier.
Which brings me to you.
I read in your letters you still owe Mr. Steve $670.000. I do not know your history with Mr. Steve but if he was as evil to you as he was to us I know you will be glad he’s gone and I don’t plan on collecting his debts. So if you want you can take $300 or $600 or however much you want from the money you owe him, I don’t care.
I hope you have a nice day.
From: Barrister Allison Diuof.
Subject: Re:PLOT TWIST!
Thank you for your reply, am a Barrister.
mr Steve do not own me anything, am only trying to help him out on an issue, there is a young lady named Rose, mr Steve tried to give a help here in Senegal in 2015, it was about her fathers money that was in London bank, her family died a result of war that occurred in her country but she was the only one that managed to escape to Senegal, and she was in the refugee camp. During her stay in the refugee camp, she has been looking for someone that can stand on her behalf as a representative to transfer her fathers money from the London bank as she can not do that because of her refugee statue. it is said in 2015, the young lady came across Mr Steve, and she told him about it which mr Steve tried to help in that issue, but it fail them as he was unable to complete that with her. later in the year, mrs Rose met another man from Paraguay who succeeded in helping her and standing on her behalf to transfer the money from the London bank to his own account.
After that, the lady decided to compensate mr Steve with $300.000, in a visa card which she dropped in a western union office here, but before they could get in touch with mr Steve, the card has already expired. Now the bank charged $600 from Steve to get another Visa card since the old one has expired, so that they can ship it to him through delivery, but mr Steve has refused to pay the money the bank charged him, at a point, the bank call me as a lawyer, to come and sign for the cancellation of the transaction, but i couldn’t sign it, i told them to wait let me hear from Steve first, so i took his email adress from the bank to write to Steve, to know why his not doing what the bank asked him to do, this is the reason i contacted mr Steve, attached is the card.
To: Barrister Allison Diuof.
Subject: Re:PLOT TWIST!
did you truly believe I would be got rid of so easily?
To: Barrister Allison Diuof.
Subject: Re:PLOT TWIST!
I imagine you must be rather perplexed, reading a dead man’s reply to your last email. That is quite alright, I do not blame you. I assure you that you shall not be the only one perturbed by this development. Having reclaimed access to my email from that traitorous swine Ernesto, you may rest assured that his days are numbered (and that the number of days in question is indeed very low).
But still, you ask, how the heck am I still alive? Well, my dear Allison, allow me to weave you a tale of wonder and intrigue.
One does not acquire riches and prestige without an acute awareness of the psyches of people one chooses to surround oneself with. You see, unlike my destitute servants I did not choose to be poor and resign myself to a life of mediocrity. I built my fortune on the foundation of naught but my own blood, sweat, and tears. Yet much to my chagrin I discovered that when one chooses to embark upon such path, one finds said path abundantly populated with unscrupulous reprobates standing on the sides and extending their filthy paws toward anyone traveling forward, desiring nothing more than to hinder one’s advance or failing that, dispossess one of one’s riches laboriously acquired.
I was under no illusion that my nefarious underlings bitterly resented my hard-earned success. I was keenly aware that their irrational jealousy shall one day manifest into malicious action and I was not about to be caught unprepared. In anticipation of an inevitable revolt I devised a series of preventative measures to subvert a possible insurrection. To my dismay, due to a series of circumstances foolishly overlooked at the time, I was betrayed by one of my closest servants for reasons I still cannot fully fathom. As I lay on the floor gasping for air in the pool of my own blood gushing from a horrible stab wound in my aorta, I had seen all my rigorously maintained precautionary contingencies fall away.
All but one.
About eighty years ago when I was still a young man in search of thrilling adventures and stories to tell to what I imagined would have been a captive audience back home, I joined an expedition into the depths of the Amazon rainforest where no civilized peoples had ever dared to venture. After three months of wondering we stumbled upon a barbarian village yet unadorned by the rule of law, a coherent economic structure, or any other burdens of the white man (I realize that way of talking seems recklessly old-fashioned nowadays for which I apologize – I am a product of a different time; a simpler era). Most of my companions – having joined the expedition after hearing tales of mysterious lost civilizations an their hidden treasures – desiring to press onward quickly tired of the locals. In what would turn out to be the most pivotal decision of my life, fascinated by the Hobbesian state of nature embodied by the natives I chose to remain behind.
A few years passed. The locals warmed up to me. I was a very hard worker and in an effort to earn their trust promptly opted to undertake the most laborious of tasks with the rest of them. I even managed to befriend the village shaman, a sort of high priest and witch doctor rolled into one very old man who was fascinated by the advancements of western medicine I decided to instruct him in. Arrogantly assuming there was nothing this primitive graybeard could teach me I asked nothing in return at the time. It was a truly fascinating and most rewarding period of my life.
Or so I thought until that faithful November morning.
I was awakened at the cusp of dawn by the screams of the village women. Drowsy from the sleepless night I struggled to my feet and put on some clothing. The aboriginals were truly adept at throwing nightlong parties centered around heavy substance abuse – one of the finer things we seem to have lost as a result of civilization. Struggling even to stand I wobbled slowly toward the commotion. Arriving at the scene I witnessed a horrific scene. Having returned prematurely from the week-long hunt, the village hunters – many of them seeming heavily wounded – slowly stumbled toward the shaman’s hut. They carried a crudely put together litter with a man lying on it. To mine and all the onlookers’ horror we realized the man on the litter was the village chief.
Pushing through the stunned crowd I made my way toward the shaman’s domicile. I had hoped that my medicinal expertise could be of use. As soon as I entered the room, however, it immediately became clear to me from the grim look on everyone’s faces that there was nothing to be done. The chieftain was dead. Ambushed and mauled by a large crocodile before the hunters he commanded could rush to his aid, the story went. They managed to fight the beast off yet three good men perished in the effort, their master among them.
Upon relaying their somber adventure the priest ordered all save me and the dead leader’s son to leave his house. When alone, he looked at me with seriousness I have never before seen in his olden grey eyes and commanded me to compose myself. I suppressed the initial shock and asked how I could be of assistance. The instructions I received were puzzling to me but I chalked it up to their tradition: handing me several clay tablets with mysterious runes, the shaman instructed me to gather into a wooden cup the blood of as many villagers as I could find who would be willing to part with it. I was then to paint the the runes I saw on the tablets onto the chieftain’s body as faithfully as possible while the old man and the chief’s boy gathered up some odd looking herbs. When we were finished, the witch doctor ordered the body buried in a mound the villagers have prepared in the interim. This was done.
At nightfall all the villagers gathered in concentric circle around the mound. The shaman began to murmur a strange incantation in a language I have never heard before. His murmurs were joined by those of the villagers and they slowly began to grow more and more audible and began to echo around the forest. I soon started to hear oddly unsettling noises of frightened birds and wild beasts. And just as this flurry of sounds reached a fever pitch, a bolt of lightning pierced the calm and cloudless night sky and struck the mound with great intensity.
I leaped away from the mound in a moment of great terror. When I regained my senses I noticed that I seemed to have been the only one who reacted this way. All the villagers around the mound seemed to have not so much as flinched. And just as my nerves had began to wind down I was once again astonished to the point of audible gasp as I witnessed what had transpired before me. The village leader well-nigh ripped apart by the jaws of the crocodile, the man we had surely buried just that dreaded morning, now bereft of any visible flesh wounds slowly opened his eyes then promptly sat up.
At first I thought my eyes were being deceived by some evil spell. To my eternal amazement however, this proved not to have been the case. The villagers came closer and laughingly hailed their newly animated leader. It was only in that moment that I realized none of the villagers so much as sniffled that day, let alone cried, a phenomenon I would have surely been suspicious of under normal circumstances, yet distraught by the events of the day and my judgment veiled in the mists of sorrow it was not something I had paid much attention to.
Having learned of the witch doctor’s awesome powers, I determined to learn all that I possibly could from the old man and proceeded to plead with him to make me his apprentice. To my everlasting astonishment, the man was more than willing to share his knowledge freely. Yet another of his people’s fine qualities that has naught but disappeared in my motherland.
To make a very long story short, I spent the next seven years as the shaman’s pupil. When I was confident that I extracted all the knowledge I could from him, I picked a day most favorable for departure then waited ’till nightfall when everyone was asleep and proceeded to burn the village and its inhabitants to the ground.
In my defense, the natives wielded ungodly powers that must never fall into the wrong hands.
The rest of the story must remain a mystery I’m afraid, however I do believe I have given you enough information to make an educated guess as to how it can be that I remain alive.
In any case, if you are still reading this, thank you for your time and attention. I must now put mind to purpose and concoct a deadly revenge plot so it may be a while before I write back. I was not yet able to check the status of the funds you owe to me, however I assume you were not foolish enough to forget your debt. If perchance you did, the number is now $880.000.
I hope to speak to you again soon.